


Terrapin Tales

by astrotato



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Family Bonding, Gen, Having A Shell Sucks Sometimes, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poisoning, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-01 16:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrotato/pseuds/astrotato
Summary: I hope to make this a small one-shot collection, depicting various moments surrounding the four turtle brothers and the people they come in contact with.Chapter 1: Winter had arrived, quick and ruthless. Between spreading lakes of black ice and the ever-present threat of snow, venturing outside the Lair had become less than appealing. Still, after four days cooped up within the confines of their home, even Leonardo had been almost glad to brave the streets of New York City. Though, Leonardo had to admit, he could have done without the strange lethargy weighing down his own limbs and the background noise of chattering teeth, curtesy of one hatless Raphael.





	1. Growing Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 of the (hopefully) one-shot collection. Leonardo's not having a particularly good day.

Winter had arrived, quick and ruthless. Between spreading lakes of black ice and the ever-present threat of snow, venturing outside the Lair had become less than appealing. Still, after four days cooped up within the confines of their home, even Leonardo had been almost glad to brave the streets of New York City. Though, Leonardo had to admit, he could have done without the strange lethargy weighing down his own limbs and the background noise of chattering teeth, curtesy of one hatless Raphael.

            “I told you to put a hat on _twice_ , Raphael.”

            “Gave it to Mikey, Donnie. You know he lost his own last week.”

A shuffle and the sound of wool sliding over leathery skin. “You can have it back, Raphie, no big deal! I’ll be fine until we get back home.”

           “Oh, no. No, Mikey, put the hat back on, we don’t need you getting sick again, alright?” Raphael’s broad body heaved with a deep sigh, the straining zipper of his jacket rasping open a few inches.

           “No, Raphie, it’s fine-”

           “Can you guys keep it down-”

Tuning out the quiet scuffle which followed, Leonardo’s allowed his eyes to flutter shut. A headache began to inch its way along his temples, nothing more than an insistent pressure, yet enough to cause a frustrating amount of discomfort. The strange itch, which had plagued the areas where the hard edges of Leonardo’s carapace and plastron met smooth skin, had also made an uninvited reappearance, the sensation far worse now beneath the thick fabric of the feather down jacket. At least his legs had stopped aching for the time being.

Still, they had been outside for quite some time and Leonardo was just about ready to head back home, initial need to escape the stifling atmosphere of the Lair be damned. Forcing his stiff body into motion, Leonardo wormed past Raphael to reach the instigator of their current ‘mission’ – aka obtaining highly dangerous chemicals from an illegal source – Donatello.

           “Guys, can we hurry this up, I’m pretty sure I’ve lost at least a toe by now and I’m ready to eat my own scarf.” Draping himself over Donatello’s hunched back, Leonardo let his cheek come to rest against his brother’s, the skin just as cold as his own. “And as much as I enjoy the sound of the words _corrosive_ and _explosive_ , they’re not worth getting a frostbite over, brother mine.”

Donatello shifted, head lolling forward in defeat. Then, quite abruptly, Donatello stood, dislodging Leonardo with enough momentum to send him falling onto his back. “Fine. Let’s go, everyone. Clearly, being punctual is not a priority in this part of New York City.”

            “And we do not steal hazardous chemicals from unreliable sources,” Michelangelo quipped, the way he over-enunciated the word ‘hazardous’ quite reminiscent of how Donatello himself would, on occasion, deliberately mispronounce certain words.

           “Quite right, Michael.”

Leonardo snorted, groaning as he sat up, brushing at the front of his jacket. “Careful, Don, or Mikey’s gonna sound just like you by the end of the year.”

            “I would be quite flattered, if that were to be the case.” With a last glance towards the gates of the research facility they had been staking out across from, Donatello looped an arm around Michelangelo’s narrow shoulders and made for the fire-escape they had climbed up a small eternity ago.

Unwilling to move even an inch, Leonardo let himself be collected off the ground by Raphael, grunting when he was thrown over his brother’s shoulder and had to endure the unforgiving edge of Raphael’s shell digging into his stomach for the remainder of the trip. A small price to pay, considering the other option would have been walking all the way back to the Turtle Tank on his own. Unacceptable.

            It was close to seven-thirty by the time they piled into the Lair. Winter gear was shed and left on the floor to be picked up later, the Lair offering a pleasant warmth and a stack of thick duvets, which had been left on the dining table. Dad was, as expected, happily snoring along to a commercial about the enriching aspects of scented body wash. Leonardo knew better than to attempt turning off the program.

Shuffling further into the living room, Leonardo hung back as Michelangelo distributed the blankets. Any energy he might have possessed two hours prior had evaporated into thin air, leaving Leonardo feeling limp and ready to retreat into the comfort of his own bed. Judging by the general discomfort lingering in the air, as it tended to whenever Donatello’s plans fell through, Leonardo doubted his presence would be missed. After all, Leonardo was self-aware enough to recognize his own personality to be a rather volatile component to be mixed with the explosive aggression of a frustrated Donatello.

            “Dad’s been sleeping a lot,” Michelangelo whispered, gently drawing the second-to-last duvet around Leonardo’s shoulders. “… Are you feeling alright, Leo? You’ve been really quiet all day.”

It took Leonardo a moment to realize he had been spoken to, mouth curving into a lopsided grin, suddenly much too aware of the ache in his legs and the itch growing at the center of his chest, just above the edge of his plastron. “Nah, I’m good. Didn’t sleep too well, though.”

A sharp frown transformed Michelangelo’s soft features, bright eyes narrowing. “Are you lying to me, Leo?”

Hands flapping through the air, Leonardo scoffed. “I’m fine, just tired, Mikey. See you guys whenever I wake up again.”

Before Michelangelo could start plucking apart Leonardo’s suspicious behavior, he was out of the living room and halfway to the beckoning sanctuary of his bedroom. Their youngest brother had always been unnaturally adept at picking up even the slightest of discomforts experienced by any of them. Even after years of cultivating the persona of the easy-going clown, Leonardo had yet to manage fooling Michelangelo’s all-seeing eyes.

            Then again, perhaps the lot of them was just exorbitantly bad at lying.

Abandoning further introspection, Leonardo entered his bedroom and dragged the door shut with a satisfying click. Silence embraced his weary body, the darkness broken only by the glow-in-the-dark stars Michelangelo had stuck to the frame of his bed back when they had been younger. For a few seconds more, Leonardo resisted the urge to scratch at the itch just behind the top ridge of his plastron, relishing in the gentle stillness all around him as he settled atop the mess of his own bed.

The moment his carapace sunk into the mattress, Leonardo’s hands were busy scratching at the skin closest to his plastron, blunt nails raking across the jut of his collarbone and knocking against the rim of the shell with each motion. Soon enough, the sensation turned painful, the skin of Leonardo’s upper chest left irritated and raw, and he lay rigid among the bundles of blankets piled around him, unwilling to move, lest it spark another bout of incessant itchiness. Despite the assortment of aches bothering his body with their presence, Leonardo found himself giving into exhaustion and soon slipped off to sleep.

            Leonardo came to with a pained hiss after what felt like only minutes. His legs were on _fire_ , prickling with the kind of pain Leonardo might have associated with a rough fall on their indoor half-pipe. The itch, which had been manageable such a short time beforehand, was unbearable now, radiating outwards along his chest and sides as if the shell itself was attempting to detach itself at a glacial pace. The thought caused a spike of fear to race through Leonardo, his body jolting upright, vision twisting with the inadvertent vertigo of a drowsy mind.

Something landed on the blanket covering Leonardo’s thighs, drawing his attention down as his hand reached for the light-switch by the bed. The light revealed an odd, vaguely rectangular object, translucent at the edges and a dark mustard yellow at its center.

A mere heartbeat was all it took for Leonardo to recognize the shard for what it was.

Dry and hard to the touch, the piece of shell lay in Leonardo’s lap, the unbidden fantasy of his shell coming loose a sudden reality. Fingers trembling, Leonardo lifted the shell-piece and slid from the bed. He needed help. His legs hurt, his shell was disintegrating, and Leonardo was cursing himself for not speaking up weeks ago.

But how could he have. Donatello was already perpetually annoyed with Leonardo, complaining about some aching legs and a bit of an itch would have would not have ended well. Sure, Leonardo may overreact on occasion, and of course the witty personality he had cultivated to escape the ever-growing shadows of his brothers in some way was not very palatable, but neither of those things should be enough to prompt such an arctic cold shoulder from who could be deemed his twin.

And yet, Leonardo faltered in his step. Doubt, a familiar weight by now, reared its heavy head. Had Leonardo not always felt misplaced? Wedged into a functional family unit, like a wood sliver into flesh, a constant nuisance to be overlooked. Back, when they had all been younger, Leonardo recalled trying to find something to excel at, something that was his own.

 When had he stopped? When Raphael’s strength had proven too much to overcome? When Donatello’s ability to problem-solve raced past Leonardo’s own? When little Michelangelo, ever the doted-on baby of their little family, had grown into an artist? Just when had his drive fizzled out, had twisted into weariness crudely patched-up with a cocky grin and a boisterous personality.

Teeth gritted against the overwhelming shame welling up, Leonardo propelled himself out the door. Laughter and cheers guided his unsteady feet towards the kitchen, the scent of heavy spices and roasting vegetables thick in the air. Michelangelo stood by the stove, decked out in his favourite apron – a birthday gift from April – and oven mitts. Raphael and Donatello occupied the small kitchen table, heads bent together over Donatello’s newest tablet.

            “Can’t believe they’d kick her out of the tournament!” Raphael cried.

            “Stop shouting in my ear,” Donatello hissed, bumping his skull against Raphael’s chin with a thunderous frown. “When’s the food going to be done, Mikey?”

            “Another minute or so and it should be ready to eat!” Michelangelo twirled where he stood, wooden spoon clutched to his chest, smearing sauce down the front of the apron in a long streak of carrot-orange. “Oh! Leo, you’re awake!”

Both Donatello’s and Raphael’s heads snapped up, their eyes zeroing in on Leonardo with frightening accuracy. It would have been unsettling for anyone who had not grown up under Raphael’s watchful gaze and Donatello’s calculating squint. Leonardo had long since become accustomed to them, thought recently, he had more often become the focus of harsh glares and painful-looking eyerolling.

            “I…” Leonardo cleared his throat, voice rough from disuse. “There’s… I think my shell’s falling off.”

Silence engulfed the kitchen for a breathless moment. Then, Donatello snorted and stood from his seat. “Honestly, Leonardo, that is one of the most brainless things to come from your mouth to date. Your shell cannot be falling off, it is attached to your body. Just like your head, I should hope.”

            “I’m not joking!” Leonardo snapped, dropping the jagged piece which had once belonged to his plastron onto the kitchen table. “It’s peeling off like old paint!”

Donatello’s eyes widened, and Raphael plucked the scute from the table, holding it carefully between his large fingers as he inspected the uneven edges, an almost sickly look spreading across his features. The clatter of a wooden spoon drew Leonardo’s attention towards Michelangelo, who stood arrested by the stove. Michelangelo’s face had grown pale, eyes large and round, mouth pressed together in a thin line. Whatever ire had overcome Leonardo was gone as fast as it had appeared, and he slumped down into one of the free seats surrounding the small kitchen table.

 A hand was pressed to Leonardo’s forehead not long after, cool against the sleep-warmed skin. Glancing up, Leonardo took in the shuttered expression on Donatello’s face, mouth twisted to the side, brows furrowed. Donatello’s other hand came to rest against Leonardo’s plastron and he could not help but watch as Donatello felt along the fissures radiating across the shiny, new layer of shell which had been revealed. Leonardo had not noticed them before, too occupied by his own terror.

            “Does it hurt?” Donatello asked, thumbing at a particularly long hairline crack, following it down to where another portion of shell was beginning to peel.

            “Not… not really. My legs have been hurting. And there’s been some itching, on my chest and the sides.” Leonardo flinched away when Donatello dug his nail underneath the lifting edge of another scute-layer. “Stop that!”

            “It’s going to come off, anyway, Leo. See how it’s lifting? It feels dead, too.”

Leonardo gave a throaty groan of despair. “Dead? Donnie, Don, Dr Forehead, why would you say something like that.”

Donatello huffed, pushing at Leonardo’s head until he was forced to tilt it back. “Because it’s true. It seems like the uppermost layer of your scutes is just… coming off. Kind of like snakes and spiders shed their skin when they grow too large for it.”

            “Are you saying Leo’s outgrown his own shell, Donnie?” Raphael squawked, standing to shuffle around the table, one large hand coming to rest on the back of Leonardo’s head, the touch gentler than normal.

            “I believe so.” Donatello gave a quiet hum. “Do you remember when you had that growth spurt a few years back, Raphael? You complained a lot about your legs hurting at night. None of your scutes came off, but Dad always said you had to ‘grow into your shell’.”  

Michelangelo piped up before Raphael could reply, his voice soft and wavering. “Is Leo gonna be okay, then? He’s not going to lose his shell?”

            “Oh, no, Michael. Everything will be fine. I will see what can be done to help with the itching, you may be shedding some of your actual skin, too, Leonardo. I cannot believe we never considered how our heritage may play into our journey to adulthood.”

Now that the threat of imminent death had passed, Leonardo found himself relaxing, eyes sliding halfway shut. Donatello proceeded to carefully check over Leonardo’s plastron, removing scutes that allowed themselves to be pried off without much effort, while leaving those tightly stuck well alone. Once done, Donatello returned to the spot where Leonardo’s plastron had cracked.

            “Mikey, can you get me the big first-aid kit? I want to try and disinfect this area, I’m a bit concerned by those fissures since I cannot tell how deep they go. Are you sure you’re not hurting in that particular area, Leo?”

Almost drowsing, Leonardo managed to force out a quiet, “No…,” before his eyes slid shut completely and his body grew slack with the impending threat of sleep.

            “Alright. Raph, could you sit Leo upright, I want to check the carapace, too.”

            “Sure, Donnie-”

            “I found the first-aid kit!”

            “Good job, Mikey, put it on the table, I’ll handle the rest.”

            Leonardo must have nodded off again, for when he opened his eyes next, he had been laid out on the living room couch and two small hands were brushing over the curve of his skull in slow, repetitive motions, one after the other. The TV was running, the volume kept low, providing a background murmur to the soft conversation taking place right beside the couch.

            “-understand why he didn’t tell us right away. Not like he’s shy about complaining for hours when he stubs his toe.”

            “I have no idea, Raphael. I have long since given up trying to understand what is happening in Leonardo’s head. Though, I guess, it might be a fascinating case study.”

            “Don’t say things like that, Donnie.”

Michelangelo’s hands stilled, and Leonardo gave a slow blink as his youngest brother leaned over him, a tentative smile on his face. Neither of them made any attempts to speak, Leonardo because he was still trundling about the space between wakefulness and slumber, and Michelangelo just did not seem to care for verbal conversation right then. How long had Leonardo been asleep?

            “-might be dealing with shedding soon, too.”

            “Ugh, no thank you. Thought you said only Leo was gonna be prone to do that?”

            “I said he _might_ be prone to shed _more often_ , Raphael.”

            “Oh.”

Michelangelo tilted his head, glancing to the side first before whispering, “How are you, Leon?”

Leonardo drew a deep breath, the large gauze-pad taped over his plastron rustling with the motion. “Tired.”

            “Yeah, you kinda just fell asleep while Donnie was patching you up. You almost fell off the chair, too,” Michelangelo murmured, index-finger prodding against Leonardo’s cheek, slow and careful. “Don’t do that again, Leo, you scared us.”

Silence fell again. Leonardo averted his gaze from Michelangelo’s frown, taking in the sight of Raphael and Donatello sitting on the large, plush carpet in front of the TV-screen, quietly bickering. Raphael sat still, arms crossed, the thick ridge of his brow drawn, while Donatello waved his arms about, mouth going a mile a minute. A small smile tugged at the corners of Leonardo’s mouth. It felt nice to be genuinely worried over like this, though the specks of hurt and the urge to retreat, to hide, remained.

           “Leo.” Michelangelo’s voice, still quiet, cut through Leonardo’s musings. “Promise me you'll say something sooner, next time. Promise me you won’t do this again.”

Leonardo shut his eyes. “Yeah. I promise.”


	2. Verdant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought this was going to be a Raphael-chapter, but I ended up with a Michelangelo chapter. The chapter includes a headcanon of mine, born from mostly my own experiences. Let me know if you can figure out what's up with Michelangelo's descriptions. Sorry for any typoes you find. I finished this thing at 2 am last night.

Green. An almost overwhelming amount of it, in varying shades, tints and shapes. In between, bright spots of rich reds, sunny yellows, saturated purple and bright orange sat. Like this, the basket full of fresh produce almost resembled a bouquet. Though unruly in its composition, the colors complimented one another, and the arrangement of the various fruits and vegetables had an almost tasteful disorder to it.

With careful hands, Michelangelo began to unload the basket. A few pieces of fruit, prickly raspberries and delightfully round blueberries, were purloined from their respective containers and crushed between Michelangelo’s teeth, releasing sparks of _grainy yellow_ and _powdery grey_. How long had it been since Michelangelo, or anyone within the Lair, had had a handful of fresh berries? Or the ability to forego the canned peas to enjoy a bowl full of chopped bell peppers?

The vegetable drawers of their large fridge had been close to empty, and the fruit bowl held but a single, somewhat shriveled, apple. Michelangelo had not complained, done his best to feed his family with thick potato soups and stews, as he tended to, whenever their luck at procuring certain necessities ran out. Still, the lack of vegetables in their recent diet had begun to affect them all, though Michelangelo had noticed Leonardo and himself to be suffering the most.

No doubt, Donatello would have a fascinating explanation as to why, should Michelangelo feel the need to ask.

Sorting through the vegetables first, Michelangelo transferred the majority into the fridge, leaving a healthy amount of carrots, cauliflower and leeks lying on the counter for him to cook with. The assortment of fruit still left on the countertop was next, apples, pears and oranges landing in the fruit bowl, with the more delicate berries joined the vegetables in the fridge, settling on a higher shelf beside two large glasses of homemade yoghurt.

Something tight inside Michelangelo’s chest unwound at the sight. Nothing made him feel giddier than a well-stocked fridge. Perhaps a new set of paints, but while cooking and painting may both touch upon Michelangelo’s inherent need to create not just for himself but for others, they were not at all the same. It was another form of art, cooking, that is, offering a more abstract, fleeting kind of artistry to experience and enjoy. For Michelangelo, it was a way to give back to his family, to share the bits and piece of love he felt for each of them, which his hugs and elaborate paintings could not convey.

Food was something they all understood, in some way or another.

The last container of blueberries was slid beside the strawberries, leaving a pair of round, grapefruit-sized peaches lying on the counter. At least, Michelangelo assumed they were peaches, as their overall appearance, from the suggestive shape to the fuzzy skin, was quite telling. However, their coloration was rather rosy, the darker spots along one side an almost eerie shade of ruby, and a thick, if short, stem grew from their top center. Perhaps they were some newfangled fruit April had thought they would enjoy?

Shrugging off his curiosity for the time being, Michelangelo moved on to start cooking. Leeks were chopped, carrots peeled and cubed, the cauliflower crumbled into small, bite-sized bits, all landing in a large pot alongside some onion to be gently seared. Soon enough, a pleasant scent began to permeate the kitchen, strengthening the further Michelangelo moved along in the cooking process, each added ingredient causing a subtle change in the scent’s hue, from _light yellow_ to a darker shade of _gold_.

            “Dearest Michael, have you seen my Dzus turnlock fastener, I must’ve misplaced it when I- oh, you’re cooking already?” Sheer luck prevented Michelangelo from dropping the half-peeled carrot in his hand at the sound of Donatello’s voice, the excited tone painting crepitating streaks of _vermilion_ , rather more orange than red, somewhere within the confines of Michelangelo’s mind.

            “Donnie! You scared me. You know you shouldn’t sneak up on me like that when I’m in the _Zone_ ,” Michelangelo chastised, twisting to look at his brother with a bright smile and a slight shake of the head. “I don’t think I’ve seen your fastener, what does it look like?”

            “Nevermind the Dzus turnlock fastener, what are you making?” Donatello stepped closer, planting his chin atop Michelangelo’s skull. “Oh, how delightful, those are _actual_ , _unfrozen_ vegetables. We haven’t had those in a while.”

Michelangelo winced. “Yeah. April’s had to get her scooter fixed and couldn’t help us out and with us having to buy another set of sunlamps, there wasn’t enough money left to-”

            “Woah, slow down, Mikey, it was a mere observation, not a rebuke.” Donatello gave a quick pat to Michelangelo’s side. “Her scooter? Why didn’t she come to me, I could’ve fixed it in no time!”

            “I’m guessing the upgrade you gave _Albearto_ scared her off.”

Donatello huffed. “How rude.”

Breathing a quiet hum in reply, Michelangelo finished peeling the carrot and offered it to Donatello. A tug followed by a crunch – a brief spark of _rigid yellow_ – and the carrot was missing a good-sized portion, Donatello’s jaw knocking against the top of Michelangelo’s head as he chewed. Neither Raphael nor Donatello were big fans of raw vegetables, but there seemed to be something about carrots which made them appeal to even their most carnivorous brothers.

Michelangelo assumed it was the texture combined with the sweet, yet not overwhelming taste to them, a soft, _stringy golden brown_ , like caramel. Or, perhaps, both Raphael and Donatello enjoyed the gruesome noise biting down on a carrot produced. Michelangelo certainly did.

 “Are you making stew?” Donatello asked, his long arm reaching around Michelangelo to heft the lid off the big pot. “That is a lot of vegetables.”

            “Potatoes and chicken were getting a bit old.”

            “Chicken never gets old.” Replacing the lid, Donatello moved away to investigate the fruitbowl. “…What is this supposed to be?”

“Hm?” Distracted now, Michelangelo abandoned the carrot he had begun to peel and made to stand beside Donatello.

Cradled in the palm of his hand, Donatello held one of the odd-colored peaches Michelangelo had been unable to identify when emptying the basket. Unable to determine whether they were vegetables or fruit, Michelangelo had, at some point, placed the peaches into the fruit bowl and left it at that. Now, with his curiosity peaked once more, Michelangelo plucked the strange food from Donatello’s hand.

            “I’m not sure, I thought it might be a fruit, they have all kinds of funny looking fruit up there. The color doesn’t scream vegetable to me and it reminded me of a peach, you know?” Michelangelo mused.

            “It looks extremely unappetizing.”

            “So do lychees, but you enjoyed them just fine the last time I made a fruit salad with them.”

            “You have a point there, dear Michael.”

With a decisive nod, Michelangelo gave the peach in his hand another precursory glance before biting down into the firm flesh. Carving out a hearty mouthful, Michelangelo chewed, frowning at the sweet, yet also somewhat bitter taste, all _muted pink_ and _bright uranium green_. Neither the second nor third bite offered any improvements, prompting Michelangelo to tear a small piece off the short, inch-wide stem growing from the top of the peach. It was tart, extremely so, a biting spark of _sharp white_ almost-pain, and Michelangelo spluttered as he struggled to chew through the misery he had caused himself.

            “I assume, judging by your facial expression, that these may need to be cooked before ingestion can commence?” Donatello drawled.

Forcing down the half-chewed mush in his mouth, Michelangelo dropped the peach-impersonator and hurried towards the sink, eager to wash the taste from his tongue. While adventurous and willing to try most foods, Michelangelo had his limits. After rinsing his mouth a good five times, Michelangelo straightened up and pointed at the mutilated fruit lying on the kitchen counter. “Definitely needs to be cooked, it’s like biting down on a raw celery slathered in lemon juice. _Gross_.”

Donatello gave a dramatic shudder. “Am I _glad_ I do not have those overwhelming urges to eat everything in sight Raphael seems to suffer from during the colder months.”

            “You tried to eat printer paper once because we only had romaine salad left and you don’t like-”

            “ _Not the point I am trying to make_ ,” Donatello squawked, arms flailing for a moment before he was able to compose himself. “Anyway, I will return to my search for my beloved Dzus turnlock fastener now. You’ll call once the food is ready?”

            “Sure, but I could make you a salad if you are hungry now, then you could also help me set the table-”

Donatello was already out the door. “Great, thank you, Mikey!”

Michelangelo did not know what he had expected. Luring Donatello with any kind of salad had never worked. Nor did any kind of threatening, at least, in Michelangelo’s case. Of course, his brothers loved Michelangelo to pieces, he knew as much, but it was quite clear to him, he did not hold much authority among them. Sometimes, being the youngest was an absolute nightmare.

            A good two hours later, Michelangelo felt like lying down. The stew had been bubbling by itself for the most part, and was just about ready for consumption, but Michelangelo could barely bring himself to move from where he had settled in his usual seat at the small kitchen table. Everything seemed to twist around him, his stomach a tight, painful knot, sweat pearling along his forehead. The orange mask lay abandoned in the middle of the table, removed in a feeble attempt at cooling the blazing heat which seemed to have gathered along his brow and cheeks. Eating that peach had been a mistake.

Still, he could not wait around and hope for someone else to set the table. Not in this household. Teeth gritted and muscles tense, Michelangelo pushed himself upright, hobbling towards the stove with single-minded determination. All he needed to do was check the stew’s consistency and call out to his brothers. Easy.

Lifting the lid from the pot containing the bubbling stew, Michelangelo took in the scent wafting from the surface. Oregano, basil, a hint of rosemary, a handful of parsley, paprika and cayenne pepper created a delightful symphony, filling the kitchen with their heady aroma. It did not take long for the first hungry turtle to appear, Raphael’s heavy, shuffling steps charming a smile onto Michelangelo’s face, despite the agonizing pain in his gut.

            “The food ready, yet?” Raphael asked, eyes round and hopeful, his voice a wide, fanning brush of forest green.

            “Yeah, you mind calling Don and Leo? Oh, and ask Dad if he wants to eat with us or if he’s staying in his TV-chair.” Setting the lid down onto the kitchen counter, Michelangelo proceeded to unearth three mismatched bowls from the from the cupboard above the sink.

            “Will do.” Raphael gave a lazy salute.

The second Raphael had vanished, Michelangelo allowed himself to slump against the counter. A few minutes more, then Michelangelo would be able to excuse himself to his bedroom to sleep off whatever was plaguing his body. All he had to do, was keep it together for a short while more. Food preparations were the _one_ thing he was able to contribute to this household filled with ever helpful older brothers; there was no way Michelangelo would bail before handing out the first bowl of stew.

Michelangelo must have lost time, as he was not at all prepared for the pair of hands grasping onto the back of his shell, or the sudden noise rushing in his ears, creating a muddled kaleidoscope of indeterminate color, ever shifting between light and dark. The world seemed to tilt to the left a moment later and a pair of arms guided Michelangelo downwards until his body came to rest on the cold kitchen tiles. Hands, warm and dry, cupped Michelangelo’s face between them, thumbs brushing over the exposed skin around his eyes.

            “Mike? Mikey, hey!” Raphael’s voice was steady yet tinged with fear. “Open your eyes, Mikey, come on.”

            “What’s going on?” Leonardo usual drawl, a placid pool of smooth _azure_ , was fraying at the edges. “What happened?”

            “Out of my way, let me see,” Donatello snapped, and Michelangelo could not help the groan of despair as Raphael’s gentle hands were withdrawn and replaced with Donatello’s. “I know, Michael, I know, my hands are cold, just bear with me for a moment, little one. By _Nikola Tesla’s transformer circuit_ , Mikey, you’re burning up!”

            “What! How’d he end up with a fever? He was fine when I left to get you guys!”

            “I don’t know, Raphael! He seemed fine when I visited him two hours ago, too, I have no idea what- oh sh- _shoot_. _The peach_!”

Leonardo coughed. “Donnie’s lost it.”

            “I have certainly _not_ lost it, Leonardo. There should be a rather pink looking fruit in the fruit bowl, still, bring it to me and _please_ _do not_ attempt to eat it,” Donatello’s sighed and Michelangelo pried apart his aching eyelids, meeting his brother’s worried gaze. “There you are. Are you able to talk? I need to know what symptoms you are experiencing right now, Michael, it’s very important.”

It took Michelangelo a few attempts before his mouth deigned to obey him. “Dizzy. Stomach hurts. Feel hot. Sick.”

Michelangelo swore he could feel his stomach try its best to tear itself apart, the muscles beneath his plastron tightening in sporadic cramps, strengthening with each wave of nausea washing through him. Breathing had grown difficult, his throat tight and each inhale felt like needles. A part of him wanted to continue lying prone and limp upon the kitchen tiles, another yearned to curl itself into a tight crescent, and a third, still rational part of Michelangelo knew neither position would stave off the inevitable.

            “Yeah, I know bud, it’s okay, we’ll – _woah_! Alright, _that_ kind of sick, got it.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Michelangelo could offer nothing more than another dry retch in reply, his weak body straining as he twisted onto his side. One arm braced against the ground, Michelangelo had just enough time to steel himself before the culprit of his current state made an unwelcome return. Bile and chunks of half-digested fruit splattered across the tile, the same taste of bitter bright uranium green lingering at the back of Michelangelo’s throat.

            “- thing contains high quantities of oxalic acid and anthraquinone glycosides, no wonder he’s-”

            “In English, Donnie, if you please,” Leonardo groaned.

Donatello huffed. “They’re the same substances that make eating rhubarb leaves in large quantities dangerous. They’re highly toxic.”

            “ _What_! Donnie, how can you be so calm? Mikey could be dying!”

            “Don’t be so dramatic, Raphael, Michael didn’t eat _nearly_ enough to be dying right now,” Donatello scoffed, the odd waver in his voice betraying just how feigned his current composure was. “Once he stops vomiting, we’ll get him situated in his bedroom with a nice, clean bucket and ride this mess out together.”

            “I think I might puke, too.”

            “If you must, Leonardo, _please_ do it in the sink.”

            “Gotcha.”

Tears trickled down Michelangelo’s flushed cheeks, mingling with the snot dripping from his nose, his mouth quirking into a tiny smile at the familiar banter. Still battling the urge to the start gagging anew, Michelangelo pushed himself upright, away from the vomit turning the floor shades of pink. Tender hands grasped onto him and Michelangelo found himself hefted gently off the ground against a broad chest. Raphael, then.

The journey to Michelangelo’s bedroom was plastered with several false alarms, but ultimately, did not end in disaster. Tucked into bed, with pillows keeping him upright and a bucket clutched to his chest, Michelangelo was quite embarrassed by the turn of today’s events. Any good chef would have known not to eat foreign foods without knowing both how to prepare them and whether they were even edible at all. A foreign food sporting a rather disconcerting shade of pink, no less. Michelangelo had never felt so foolish in his life.

No wonder his brothers still treated him like a toddler on occasion, considering incidents like this had occurred in the past.

           “Mikey?” Raphael’s palm came to rest against Michelangelo’s cheek. “You feelin’ any better?”

           “Little bit,” Michelangelo rasped.

Sprawled out across the bottom of the bed, Leonardo offered a soothing pat to Michelangelo’s blanket-covered knee. “You’ll be fine in no time. By the way, you sound like Clint Eastwood right now.”

A tiny smile stole itself across Michelangelo’s face. “Thanks.”

            “You are so very welcome, baby brother.”

The bed dipped precariously as Raphael settled down beside Michelangelo, adding a third body to a mattress meant for one. Donatello, seated in the rolling chair by the desk, held out a glass of water, his mask dangling around his neck, revealing the dark circles beneath his eyes. Michelangelo accepted the glass with a grateful smile and took a few, tiny sips, eager to wash away the bitter taste sticking to his tongue.

It would be a short-lived relief, judging by the still present ache in his abdomen, but Michelangelo would deal with the upcoming onslaught of agony once it arrived. For now, Michelangelo would continue to sip at his water, and bask in the knowledge that he was being cared for, no matter what.


End file.
